


Jodhpurs and Body Paint

by Buttsuoka_Rin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caramel Body Paint, Fluff, M/M, Riding Gear, Sex, silk scarves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-31
Updated: 2012-07-31
Packaged: 2017-11-11 03:10:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/473859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttsuoka_Rin/pseuds/Buttsuoka_Rin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sherlock gave a too-knowing little smile and leaned down to whisper into John's ear. "Promise not to tear them off in front of the help and I'll keep these on the rest of the day. Coat and boots, too, if that's what you'd like, Doctor Watson." And, with that, he turned on the heel of one immaculately polished boot and padded off.</i>
</p><p>John and Sherlock take a break from London and reside in Kent, in the Holmes' Summer home. John wakes up to discover Sherlock has gone horse-riding. He's... Quite impressed with what he sees. That night, Sherlock has a surprise for John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jodhpurs and Body Paint

**Author's Note:**

> The is based on an old roleplay of mine. Also, I am currently watching the olympics showjumping. That's what inspired me to write this.

What woke John the next day was not the light, seeing as the curtains in Sherlock's bedroom were thick enough to keep the room nice and dark. It was the sound of a cock crowing in the distance, loud enough that the sleeping John could be roused to wakefulness. He blinked bleary eyed around the room and it took him a second to realise Sherlock wasn't in the bed beside him. He sat up, blinking sleep out of his eyes, and looked around.

Seeing no sign of his partner, the doctor lay back down again and sighed, rubbing his face with his hands. Glancing beside him, he saw Sherlock's pyjamas folded neatly on his pillow. He smiled. No matter what, the man always folded his pyjamas neatly on his pillow. "I suppose I better get up." He yawned, speaking to himself. When he caught himself doing so, he shook his head. "First sign of madness, John… And answering myself is the second."

So, pulling back the thick curtains to allow some morning light in, John got himself into a pair of old jeans and stripy jumper. It struck John then that all of Sherlock's clothes were still hanging up in the wardrobe, including his shoes. The detective was hardly running about stark naked? Still confused, but now utterly intrigued (and secretly hoping that was the case), John made a very quick bathroom break.

 

The maid who had served them dinner last night was mopping the marble floor in the lobby. "Good morning Doctor Watson." She put the mop and bucket away and wiped her hands on her apron. "Just watch this floor here. It can be quite painful if you slip." She offered him a smile as he cautiously reached the bottom step.

"Morning, erm…"

"Miriam." She answered. Her long, straight black hair was tied into a loose side ponytail. She wasn't wearing a navy dress under her apron like the other two maids, just a simple pair of black trousers and a grey shirt. John, even though he was wholly committed to Sherlock, still found her to be very pretty. If he had a type (and a bigger interest in women), she would be considered quite beautiful, with her big brown eyes and button nose.

"Right, sorry Miriam. Have you seen Sherlock?"

"Check the stables. He went out in riding gear this morning so I can only assume, Sir. If he's not there, he'll probably be in the riding arena. Just follow the trail from the stables." She started to wheel the mop and bucket away.

"Thanks!" John called after her and carefully picked his way across the floor. He made his way out the door and around the back. Going past the post-and-rail fence he had seen the horses in the previous evening, John found the stable yard. He walked around it, looking at the well spaced troughs and feeders, and the entrance to the tack room. There was a water pump and a well, both made of thick grey stone. It gave the stable yard a very authentic, ancient, but beautiful feel.

The interior of the stable where the horses were kept was big and dimly lit. Bales of hay were stacked on side, and on the other side were the actual stables. The only stable door that didn't have a horse behind it held a fancy brass plaque with 'Last Enemy' engraved into it. Odd name for a horse, really, unless he's particularly mean.

"Excuse me, Sir, but I don't think we've met." A young man with a heavy Bristol accent came around the corner. He was dressed in a pair of faded tracksuit bottoms, muddied Wellies, a checked shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a vintage looking hardware waistcoat. His hair was short and red, peeking out in little wisps under his backwards worker cap, and he was wheeling a wheelbarrow with what looked like horse-feed in it. "My name's Darryl. Mister Sherlock told me about you this morning."

"Oh, I'm John. John-"

"Watson, yes. I know." He gave a friendly smile. "Mister Sherlock is out riding if you want to go up. Just follow that path there." He gestured out of the stable and in the direction of a cobble path. John nodded in thanks and Darryl went about his business.

Sure enough, John found a large riding arena filled with smoothly raked sand at the end of the path. He was just tall enough to lean his forearms on the surrounding fence. What he saw brought a huge grin to his face; Sherlock, decked out in full riding dressage, trotting around the arena on a dapple-grey stallion. John couldn't help but notice how tight fit and tailored to perfection his riding gear was, especially the khaki coloured jodhpurs. Tailored to the point that John was sure the bloody things were going to burst apart at the seams every time Sherlock shifted his weight in the saddle.

The horse launched into a steady canter and jumped smoothly over a jumping post. The detective lifted out of the saddle as the dapple's hooves left the ground, crouching low over the horse's neck, and settled lightly back down as his hooves found the sandy floor of the arena and kicked up a spray of dirt. This process repeated enough times that John had to keep from staring onlyat Sherlock's backside and focus on his skill as a rider. Which was harder than one might expect and made John feel like a virtual saint, thank you very much.

John clapped and stood on tip-toe when Sherlock noticed him. The detective reined the horse to a trot and eventually a walk, before stopping at the fence beside John. His cheeks were flushed pink and a few wayward curls peeked out from under his helmet. The black leather riding crop was held in his right hand, tucked just under the reins and resting against the dapple's shoulder. Leaving the thin leather reins draped over the front of the saddle, Sherlock swung lightly down to lean on the fence beside John.

"That was good."

"It's been a while." The detective unbuckled his helmet and lifted it off, tossing his head back to keep his hair out of his eyes. The dapple snorted and pawed at the sand, dropping his head a bit. "Ah, the poor thing's tired out. I suppose I should bring him in. Walk with me?" Sherlock put his helmet back on but left the chinstrap unbuckled, taking the stallion's bridle loosely in one hand. John opened the gate for him as he led the horse out and closed it behind his lover. Only to be polite, really, not to get a last fleeting glimpse of Sherlock's bottom in those trousers. Not at all. 

He trotted up to walk beside Sherlock, who cast a slightly tired smile at him. "I didn't know you rode, Sherlock."

"Well, there isn't much else to do out here in the summers. I used to be better, but I'm quite out of practice. I used to ride Last Enemy's sire as a boy, before he got put out to pasture."

The soft crunch of sand and gravel underfoot changed to the louder ringing of Sherlock's riding boots on the wooden floor of the stable. There was a rail at about hip-height near the tack room, and Sherlock tied his dapple to this before going for a halter, curry comb, and chamois. Darryl came to take the saddle, saddle pad, and bridle, inclining his head politely to both John and Sherlock before going off with them to clean them. John found a perch on a hay bale to wait for Sherlock to finish with the horse.

Sherlock scratched under the dapple's mane as he worked the round curry comb down the horse's body, cleaning off the sweat and dirt. He ran a hand over the horse's hindquarters to keep him from kicking as he went around to his other side. Only his head was visible above the dappled back. 

"There are some lovely trails in the hills if you want come try riding with me. We can't get far from the estate on them unless we cut through the thickest part of the woods." The curry comb was traded for the chamois, and Sherlock crouched down to wipe clumps of sand from the dapple's fetlocks.

"You Want me to ride with you? I don't have much experience with horses." The last time John was on a horse, he was twelve years old and walking with a guide on a Dorset beach.

"I'll help you along. I think you'll adapt quite well." Sherlock straightened up and came back around to the side nearest John, once again kneeling to brush off some sand. He said something else, but John missed it. He was trying very hard not to stare at Sherlock's bottom in his jodhpurs but when he crouched down like that it was impossible. John chose to make some sort of vague sound of agreement and nod, and did his best not to look tooglazed when Sherlock turned around and straightened up again. 

"Anyway, that's pretty much done. I'm going to have a shower before lunch." Sherlock gave a too-knowing little smile and leaned down to whisper into John's ear. "Promise not to tear them off in front of the help and I'll keep these on the rest of the day. Coat and boots, too, if that's what you'd like, Doctor Watson." And, with that, he turned on the heel of one immaculately polished boot and padded off. 

John just sort of sat on his hay bale and stared at the wall, definitely not blushing. He stayed there until the sound of Sherlock's boots faded into the distance, and hopped down. Before Darryl returned to take the dapple away, John gave Last Enemy's muzzle a stroke, amazed at the horses height compared to his own. Sherlock's head may have been visible above the body, but John's definitely was not.

*

John had been sent into the nearby town to pick up some necessities and toiletries. It wasn't entirely necessary due to the fact they had cooks and maids in the Kent house, but Sherlock had plans and needed time alone to set things up. He had seen the way John looked at him that morning in his riding gear. 

Sherlock raided the house for candles. Most of them had been used up, but he found some white and blue tapers and a handful of white pillar candles. Finding holders wasn't hard, but finding places in the bedroom to set them all was. Most of them ended up lined up along the windowsills (after he took the curtains down and tucked them away in the wardrobe) with a couple more on each nightstand.

He borrowed a pair of black silk scarves from one of the laundry maids. He promised to pay her back for them, as they would be in no fit state to be returned when they were done with them. The maid had blushed furiously and waved it off.

The scarves went upstairs with him around midafternoon, and Sherlock left the key to the bedroom with one of the maids, telling her he was not to be disturbed and that John was to be given the key when he came home.

With that, he locked the door behind him, lit the candles, changed into his jodhpurs and not a stitch else, and managed (somehow) to get one of the silk scarves around both wrists and around one of the bars of the headboard. He was rather good at knots, but not when his own limbs were involved, and he nearly dislocated a finger getting the knots tight. Then he inched up the bed toward the headboard to wait for John to come home.

Which wasn't very long. Sherlock was on the point of dozing off when he heard footsteps coming up the corridor to his room and heard the key turn in the lock.

"Sherlock, why on earth have you locked yourself in... Oh."

"Surprise?"

Apparently the sight of Sherlock stretched out on the bed, hands bound to the headboard, in nothing but a pair of unbuttoned khaki jodhpurs was either too much or not quite enough for John. Instead of leaping onto the bed and taking advantage of the situation, John quite calmly set down his shopping bag and took off hs coat. The coat went into the wardrobe, and John sat down near the foot of the bed.

"Yes, this is a surprise. Not what I was expecting to come home to, actually. Still nice, though." His gaze flicked to the silk scarf binding the detective's hands to the head of the bed and back to Sherlock, who was lying quite still on the coverlet. "I brought a little surprise of my own, actually, if you're interested."

"Yes, of course" They shared a smile. John reached into the shopping bag, finally straightening up and putting a small plastic container on Sherlock's stomach. The detective craned his neck to peer down at it. "Really, John? Edible caramel body paint?"

"Well, yes. I thought it would be interesting." John trailed a finger over the slight 'V' of Sherlock's hipbone, watching the detective's skin shiver under the touch. "Of course, it's just a suggestion, and I have the receipt to return it if you really don't like it..." He trailed off, his finger running back up Sherlock's hip.

Sherlock cast another slilghtly wary-slightly curious look down at the plastic tub and paintbrush sitting on his stomach. "Well... I suppose it would be unfair if I said no. It seems like it would be very messy though, John..."

"Oh, the mess won't be a problem. It's edible, after all." Shifting back on the bed to sit cross-legged near Sherlock's feet, John picked up the small plastic tub to read the suggestions printed on the sides. "Well, it reccommends warming it up, but I don't feel like going all the way downstairs to heat it up. I hope you don't mind it being a little cold." The detective shrugged a little, as much as he could with his hands bound above his head, and watched as John tore off the plastic covering with his fingernails. The paintbrush was set lightly down on Sherlock's shin as John fought with the lid of the tub. That, too, eventually came off, and even from Sherlock's distance he could smell the almost sickly-sweet odour of caramel.

"A bit strong," John muttered, setting the plastic container on the footboard between two of Sherlock's candles. Leaving it there, he got off the end of the bed in order to strip down to just his underwear. He had a feeling that if the paint got on anything but skin it was going to be next to impossible to remove.

Sherlock was honestly more excited to have John mostly naked than he was about being covered in potentially sticky, overly sweet caramel. Still, it would be John licking the stuff off him and that wasn't an unpleasant thought. So he lay very still as John sat on the edge of the bed beside him, took up the plastic tub and paintbrush, and set to work.

It wasn't as bad as Sherlock expected; the brush was a bit ticklish, but the body paint wasn't all that sticky when it first went on. It did dry rapidly, however, and John seemed to find the need to layer the stuff in places. The former doctor worked his way over Sherlock's body with an intense concentration, his brow furrowed and his tongue poking out lightly. That in and of itself was amusing, and the detective found himself stifling the occasional chuckle as John worked.

His chuckle turned into a sharp moan when John lowered his head and licked the first strip of caramel off the skin below Sherlock's navel. He was very thorough about it, and the stripe of skin was tinged faintly pink by the time he lifted his head and moved onto the line of the detective's hip. Each stripe of caramel was treated with the same care and the same determination, and by the time John had worked his way upward to the layered bits on Sherlock's chest and nipples, the detective was a quivering, moaning mess. Getting the layered paint off was more of a job, and involved as much nibbling as anything else.

John finally sat up, licking the last bits of caramel off his mouth and glancing down at Sherlock. The detective was watching him with wide eyes, his pupils so blown with lust that there was only a very thin rim of stormy grey-blue around them. Neither of them had really noticed, but all that nibbling and licking in the name of getting the caramel off had gotten Sherlock almost painfully hard.

And really, what sort of man was John Watson to pass up that opportunity? With the way Sherlock had laid himself out, John could picture where Sherlock had imagined the evening going. John swiftly removed Sherlock's jodhpurs and tossed them off the bed altogether. Surprise flitted over his face as the former doctor straddled his hips. "John?"

"Just trust me, Sherlock."

"But John!"

John leaned down to kiss him and shut him up. That proved shockingly effective, actually, and kissing the detective was enough to distract him while John found the lube. Spreading a dollop of it on his fingers, the former doctor quickly and matter-of-factly stretched himself out. He couldn't stop from making a small sound into Sherlock's mouth, which made the detective pull his head back and stare up at his lover in surprise. He hadn't been expecting this: he'd expected John to be the one fucking _him_ tonight. Then again, he wasn't about to argue.

John pressed his fingers in farther and finally reached his prostate, rubbing his fingers over the bundle of nerves carefully and moaning into Sherlock's mouth.

"I'm ready, Sherlock. Are you?" The detective had been unconsciously arching up his hips and pressing into John, and by now he couldn't have been more ready than anything. He wanted so badly to touch John, but his hands were bound above his head and that seemed to have caused some very excited tingling below, and he was painfully hard. It certainly had been too long. Nodding, he allowed John to line him up.

"Fuck." John gasped, lowering himself onto Sherlock, using one of his lubed up hands to slick up the base of Sherlock's erection and make the access just a little bit easier. He settled down again and paused to give them both enough time to adjust.

"M-move John…" Sherlock let out a breath he hadn't been aware that he'd been holding and tugged at the scarves tying his wrist, desperate to touch his lover. John nodded and shifted his hips forward, closing his eyes as he did so. The feeling of Sherlock inside him was as glorious as it had been the first time they did this, and soon enough he was setting a rhythm of his own; rolling, lifting, riding. His left hand was keeping him up, splayed beside Sherlock's mass of curls on the bed, and his right hand was pumping his own erection. Sherlock thrust up as much as he could in his current position, moaning softly in pleasure. 

"John!" Sherlock's head tipped back, his back arching up slightly off the bed and his eyes fluttering closed. John leaned forward, still keeping his pace, and sucked softly on his lover's jawline, pulling louder and even more desperate near-climax groans from the detective's mouth. His thrusts gained a quicker pace and, from the half-syllable cries of Sherlock's name, John was getting very close.

"Ngh, Sherlock-" John squeezed his hand tighter around himself, giving a few tugs and finally releasing onto Sherlock's chest. His head dropped into the crook of Sherlock's neck and he continued to ride the detective until he too came with a guttural, shuddering cry that echoed around the bedroom. His orgasm was made stronger by the fact he couldn't hold on to John.

 

John levered himself off Sherlock and all but collapsed onto him with a "sorry". His cheek rested just over the detective's heartbeat, which was racing, and the skin there was moist with perspiration. A few quiet moments of soft panting passed by, before Sherlock cleared his throat again. John raised his head and looked questioningly at his lover, who gestured with his eyes to his bound hands.

"Oh, right, sorry." John sat up on his knees and unknotted the scarves, brow furrowing in concentration when he tried to undo a particularly skilfully tied knot. How Sherlock managed such elegant knots by himself (and most likely with one hand and his teeth) John would never know. His lover was so full of surprises sometimes.

"Thanks." Sherlock let his arms fall down to his sides, flexing his wrists and rubbing at them.

"I hope they weren't too tight."

"John please, I tied them myself."

"Right yeah." The former army doctor lay down on his stomach beside Sherlock and rested his head in his arms.

They watched each other for a while, and Sherlock eventually lay down beside John. "I love you, John."

"I love you too."

They shared a quick kiss and Sherlock idly traced patterns on the base of John's back. John watched his eyes go from lazy and post-coital to curiosity. He felt Sherlock's index finger prodding the small of his back and he rolled onto his side.

"What?"

"You… You have back dimples." Sherlock smirked and traced the very feint dimples. "I never noticed before."

"Oh yeah. They've been there since I was a baby I was told." John pulled a face. "They're weird looking."

"No, they're cute. Adorable, actually." Sherlock smiled at John and shimmied down the bed. He kissed the dimples lightly and John gasped, stifling laughter by pressing his face into the pillow under him.

"I didn't know you were ticklish there, John."

"Neither did I!"

"I'll have to keep that noted." John peered back to see that usual mischievous smirk on his lover's face. He rolled his eyes and pulled him back up so they were eye level.

"Very funny." John yawned. Sherlock pressed closer and nuzzled their noses together. He shared John's body heat and yanked the duvet over them.

"Goodnight." He whispered into John's neck, as John's fingers carded through his mussed up dark curls.

Tomorrow, Sherlock though, he'd get John into his own pair of jodhpurs and riding boots.


End file.
